“What’s in the bag?” The young women asked as she was taking the I.D. cards from Drew. Alicia was holding a plastic bag.
“Oh. Just some laundry.” The young woman made a crinkle with her brow, like an android hearing something it could not compute. “I plan on just running some water and soap on them, then I will lay them out in the sun.” The young woman still looked confused. “Come on, I can’t be the first person to do this?”
“Maybe,” The young woman said, showing no interest and motioned them into the shower. On the shower door was a sign that read: “Please keep showers under 5 minutes. Respect your fellow human beings.”
I had brought a bag of my own. Once Alicia shared her idea of doing laundry in the shower, our group thought it was a great idea and jumped at the opportunity to get our underwear at least somewhat clean. It’s one of those issues that no one thinks about when creating a refugee camp.
After showering, we spent the afternoon lounging around in our respective tents. I even took a nap. I did my best to keep my mind blank. Not dwell on the dichotomy of the camp. Twelve days in this camp, and it was evident that the people in charge were doing their best to make everyone as comfortable as possible. The televisions, showers, Thanksgiving dinner and all the other amenities present were devised not of evil intentions, but to provide, as best they could, a comfortable environment for all, in this difficult situation. But, that did not change the fact that we were forced into this camp and held here without a choice. The amenities were no replacement for the lack of freedom or even the lack of knowledge concerning what was happening in the world. By not providing this vital information to the encampment, they were creating a sense of dread. If they were purposely keeping this information from us, then it must not be information they think we can handle. Again, good intentions by those who believe that they know better than us, in positions of power, create a dynamic that could lead to only one result. Blowback. The one-word American military and government officials should be well accustomed to knowing.
I could not keep my mind blank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
11/28/2024
By 5 p.m., the anticipation was at an all-time high. We had gathered around the TV in the Welles family tent and even went so far as to add one of the cots from my tent, which now was located just below the TV. I sat front and center on this out of place furniture, Kaitlyn to my left and Zero to my right. The rest were seated on the uncomfortable cots as well, Jenna was sitting cross-legged so her legs didn’t rest against the metal bar along the edge of the cot and I did the same.
Currently on, some show I had never seen. It was called Forget About Men. Must be a newer show. A filmed in front of a studio audience show. Network TV at its finest. We didn’t care, we only half-watched.
“Any ideas on what we are about to watch?” Jenna asked.
“A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving?” Zero said.
“I can’t think of any good Thanksgiving shows,” Drew added.
“Probably some special announcement about the upcoming special Christmas dinner,” Kaitlyn said. The cynicism was exposed for all to hear. She was beginning to sound like me.
“It’s probably just an update on the situation,” Ethan said. “We want to let you know all things are going great. We really appreciate your cooperation. We should be thankful we’re still alive. Blah. Blah. Blah.”
“I hope it’s an update on what the hell is going on,” Alicia said. “Who attacked us? What are we doing about it? That sort of thing.”
“It could be any of that,” I added, while not actually adding anything as has been my M.O. this past week. “But, I wouldn’t get any hopes up on any real infor-”
“Shh, it’s starting,” Zero said.
After the credits of the previous show had sped by at a remarkable pace, we were greeted with a blank screen. A flicker showing the N.T.S.C. bars. Then a wood desk framed on each side by a flag. On the left of the screen a United States flag. On the right a blue flag for the President of The United States. Seated at the desk was a man. Pale skin, dark eyes, and gray hair combed slightly to his right, which accentuated the receding hairline. A gray suit, white shirt with a bright red tie.
“Good Evening,” The man said. “My fellow Americans on this wonderful celebration of thanks, I want to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. This incredibly American holiday is an important institution and one that, even in these trying times, should be celebrated and appreciated.” The speaker paused. “So, in that spirit, I would like to give thanks. Thanks to all the hard-working rescue workers. FEMA, the Red Cross, the various state National Guards, and our excellent military personnel. We have the strongest and most powerful military in the world. And even as I speak here, they are out hunting and bringing to justice the perpetrators of this horrendous act. No matter where they hide,” Pausing for dramatic effect. “And we will find them. Unfortunately, it is on this issue that I must speak freely. Intelligence has brought to light, that this attack while executed by foreign agents was orchestrated from within our own government.” The air just got sucked out of the tent as everyone gasp, including myself. “We have already apprehended many of those who were responsible, and we will surely find the rest.” Another pause. “I am sorry to have spoiled your Thanksgiving, but I thought in the interest of transparency, that it best I am as truthful as I can be with each and every one of you. All of us were affected, by this treacherous act. How can we not be? The victims were secretaries, businessmen and women, military and federal workers, moms and dads, friends and neighbors.” Another pause. “If you were near the sites of these attacks please allow the military and FEMA workers to do their job. Even so,” He appeared to sound off script now, as his cadence had changed from steady and calm to fast and slurry. “This is a strong country, we have always been, we have endured terror before, but nothing on this scale.” Another pause. “But we will. This is the United States of America. The home of the free. And we will always be. God bless us all on this Thanksgiving, and God bless the United States of America.”
For a few seconds, the camera just stayed on the President, and then cut to black. No one said a thing for at least thirty seconds.
“Who the fuck was that?” Zero asked, breaking the silence. “I thought our president was a woman?”
“Our president was, or is, a woman. President Gillibrand. We re-elected her a few weeks ago,” Alicia said.
“What the hell?” Drew said. “I have never seen that guy before in my life.”
“Did he even say who he was?” Jenna asked.
“No,” Ethan said. “I feel like we missed an episode somewhere.”
Yes, that was the feeling. Like we were dropped onto another planet with another United States. It was disorienting. There was also something strange about the whole presentation. Something about the setting, like looking at one of those picture games where you had to guess what was different between the two, even though they looked alike. The oval office wasn’t the same oval office.
“That wasn’t the oval office,” I said.
“What? Where was it?” Zero asked.
“Don’t know.”
“How do you know?” Jenna asked.
“Cause there was only one window.”
“Maybe it was just zoomed in?” Kaitlyn asked.
“No. There was enough space. And on each side of the flags past the curtain, there was a wall, where there should have been a window.”
The TV went back to its original scheduled programming, which was an old TV show called Three’s Company. I stood up and turned down the volume.
I had seen some scary shit in my time, but that presidential address shook me to my core. On the surface, it seemed perfectly fine, but something about the whole thing felt off. The speech was not well written. He, apparently, went off script, yet had to insert the portion about the traitors within the government. It could all be my own paranoia, but I could tell I was not the only one who felt disturbed, the tent had exploded into
a vocal debate, about what was really going on.
“Maybe the president died, along with the rest of...” Drew said. “What’s it called? The one’s who would be called after.”
“The line of succession,” Alicia said.
“Right. Maybe it’s like that show Battlestar Galactica. Maybe he was the Secretary of Education or something.”
“Maybe,” Ethan said. “But, that’s not the important part. What about the idea that people in our own government would orchestrate this. That’s nuts.” He paused. “Why?”
No one had an answer. Maybe for a power grab? Maybe this new president took over via a coup? Maybe the terrorists planted evidence on innocent government officials? Maybe? Maybe? We began to sound like the writers’ room of a television show. A whole lot of speculation.
“Look, there is no use to speculate or even worry about what we just saw,” I said. “We can’t. We have to worry about the here and now. We cannot find answers or have any say either way, even if it is the worst thing imaginable.”
This quieted the room. I looked down at my watch. 5:55 p.m., we had been going like this for almost forty-five minutes. Scaring ourselves, with things that have no impact on our lives now. The camp was all that mattered now. I knew that was not entirely accurate, but I had to work on one problem at a time. It was the practical and rational thing to do.
“It’s almost six. Let’s go get our Thanksgiving dinner and try to enjoy it,” I said. They all agreed. As I was heading back to my tent, to grab a jacket, and I asked Kaitlyn to follow me. I found my backpack in a pile of bags in the corner.
“What’s up?” Kaitlyn asked as I was reaching into the backpack.
I pulled out a small pair of pliers and pointed to the back of my head. “I need you to remove my staples.”
“Me?” she said, and dread overtook her face.
“Please,” I said. I sat down on the dirt and motioned for her to come over. She took the wrench and parted the hair on the back of my head.
“You want me to just rip these out?”
“Yes, please.”
I heard her sigh and felt a hand steady the back of my head. Then the cold wrench brushed against the back of my skull. Then a slight pinch.
“It’s bleeding,” she said, as she dropped a staple on the dirt floor.
“Grab one of my shirts.” I pointed toward my bag in the corner. She grabbed a shirt, wiped the back of my head and pulled the second staple out.
“Thanks for calming everyone down back there,” she said while pulling out the third. “It was like one of those social media news stories that everyone passes around and gets everyone pissed off. But, you eventually realize there is nothing that you can do about it, so all it did was make you mad and ruined your day.”
“One problem at a time. Right?” I said.
“Yeah. Get us out of here and then on to Utah, right?” Kaitlyn asked.
“That’s still the plan,” I said and nodded.
She grabbed my arm and rubbed it softly. “All done.”
“Go on, I’m gonna change my shirt and grab a jacket. I will meet you down there.”
“Okay,” she said and smiled. Then she turned away, and I watched her go. I stripped off my shirt and found a somewhat clean one, grabbed my trusty black sweatshirt, re-applied my beanie to my head, opened the flap to the tent and stared straight into four Army soldiers, all equipped with M4A1 assault rifles.
“Blake Anderson?” The soldier in front asked.
“Yes,” I said, doing my best to hide my fear.
“We need you to come with us.”
“What for?” I thought about making a run for it, but that would just make me dead quicker.
“Just come with us.”
I looked to the west, the direction Kaitlyn went, and I could not see her in the evening light. I couldn’t see any of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
11/28/2024
How did they find me? Were they waiting for me, hiding in the shadows, until the rest of the group left? Secret cameras watching? Waiting for their moment? All these questions swirled around my mind as four soldiers walked me through the camp. Two in front. Two behind. No need to ask where they were taking me. But why? Did our questions this past week finally get noticed? Then why just me? The timing is what haunted me. How perfect was it, that they show up when I was alone? Except, I had been walking the camp alone for the past week. They could have grabbed me any of those times. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe they came to look for me and it just so happened at the moment it did.
I saw the intake tent up ahead. The answers would be inside. As we approached, I began to sweat profusely, and my heart felt like it was drumming along with a Dead Kennedy’s song. At the front of the tent, the flaps opened and I was ushered into the same intake tent we entered when we arrived here, only now it had been turned into some sort of Army headquarters. A large square table, or multiple tables, engulfed the entirety of the room. At the table were a dozen soldiers peering onto computer or laptop screens. As I was lead to the corner of the room and a small plastic chair, I saw on a few of the monitors, images of the camp. Live images, mainly centered on the mess halls. On other screens were spreadsheets and computer code. The spreadsheets I could understand if I had a closer look, the code was a foreign language.
“Sit here,” a soldier said and motioned me to the plastic chair in the corner. I sat down and said nothing. The soldier, who appeared to be the highest-ranking member of my escort, went back to the opposite corner of the tent, where a small desk was erected and began talking to the man seated at the desk. The man at the desk nodded and looked over at me. I stared back with a straight face. He walked around the desk and headed in my direction.
He was a large man, at least six-foot-two, with a bald head. A career military man. As he approached I saw the patches on his uniform, and I understood, this was not just a career military man, but one of the important ones. The colonel patch was evident. O-6 pay grade.
“Blake Anderson,” he said, as he approached.
“That’s me,” I said.
“Come over to my desk, we need to have a talk.” I got up and began to follow him. “Oh and bring the chair,” he said, with a thin smile. “We seem to be running out.”
I did as told.
At his desk, he motioned me to sit at the empty space in front of his desk. His desk was clean, except for a stack of Post-It notes and a military-grade protected tablet. As he sat down, he grabbed the tablet and began working it like a monkey playing the piano.
“Aw. Here we go,” He finally said, not looking at me, but at the tablet. “Blake Anderson, or should I say, Private Blake Anderson.” So, there it is, that’s why they grabbed me.
“Not anymore,” I said. He ignored me.
“My name is Colonel Miles.” He paused, waiting for a response. I gave him none. He looked back at his tablet. “It says here you joined in May of 2021 and were honorably discharged in May of this year.” He looked up at me again, as if waiting for a confirmation of the facts. Again, I said nothing. “You were assigned in Syria at a refugee camp in fall of 2021. Then you were assigned special assignments in Afghanistan and Iran. Looks like those were training assignments.” Again, he looked up from the tablet at me. I gave him nothing, and he kept reading, only this time to himself. After another thirty seconds, he said: “Sounds like you had a tough time in Syria?”
“We all did,” I said.
“That is true. But, I know first-hand how dangerous those camps became. Your Sergeant and many other officers said you were exemplary in your handling of difficult situations.”
“I did what I had to.”
“That’s all we can do.” He placed the tablet down on the desk, leaned back in his chair and looked me straight in the eyes. “It also says you killed thirteen civilians, during the last week of your deployment.” Was it thirteen? I didn’t count. “You did what you had to, to protect the camp. I understand that, and that’s why we need you.
”
“I’m sorry. What?” I said.
“Look. As you may have guessed, the camps are running smoothly now, and we need them to continue to run smoothly. Not many of the soldiers here have any experience with this sort of work.”
“It’s not what a soldier should be doing.”
“You are one hundred percent correct. A soldier is no peace officer. But, what can we do? The California National Guard is spread thin. The local police have either disappeared or joined with other cities that need help. The County Sheriffs still have jobs elsewhere. FEMA, with its volunteers, can only do so much. The Red Cross has no ability to maintain order in a camp this size. We are needed, and here we are.”
“So, you want me to what, re-up?”
“I, technically, don’t have to ask, you are still under contract with the Army for three more years.” Damn, if he wasn’t right. “Your part of the I.R.R. If you were anywhere else in the country you would have already been called.” I was caught, nowhere to run. “It just took us awhile to get our databases up and running. We’ve been slowly going through the list of people in all the camps. But, the last thing we want to do is force people to re-enlist if they don’t want to.”
“So, I have a choice? Or I don’t have a choice?”
“Both, you always have a choice. After reading your file, I figured it was best to approach like this and speak to you, personally.”
“Why?”
“You see most of the people in this room,” he said, pointing to the large desk in the center of the room. “Most of them have been in the Army for less than a month, some even less than that. Some signed up after the attacks.” As in multiple. “We need experienced soldiers. Especially here. Basic training can’t come close to training for this situation. But, most importantly, we need people like you, who has served in a refugee camp before and has trained other soldiers.”
“I only helped, I wasn’t in charge. Trained a bunch of locals, who barely spoke English, and for most of my time with them, I couldn’t decipher if they hated me or were grateful.”
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